by Nigel Henry
Cal.
EIGHT
IT LOOKS SO FRAIL, sprawled out across the bottom of the crate. So harmless that you wouldn’t expect it to be a shapeshifter. But my parents and I have survived this long because we tend to expect the unexpected.
And even though we haven’t seen Cal shape-shift, there’s no other explanation that makes sense. He started barking before the gunman pulled out his weapon and tried to hold me up. He also got screamed at, for apparently not detecting that we had weapons on us.
Cal was working with the other bank robbers. But they turned on him for some reason. We need to find out why, and we need to use Cal to find the others.
Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s hard to not feel sorry for the little guy. I crouch down in front of the crate and watch him as he snores, one lip hanging down and flapping with each breath. My brain knows I’m looking at a shape-shifting bank robber, but my eyes see a sleeping puppy. One that’s missing the fur on its chest.
We nearly lost Cal. I found him, bleeding from the chest and whimpering. Turns out the other shifters tried to bite his neck off before leaving. Thankfully, Inspector Perkins knew a vet nearby that took a look at Cal while we loaded Dad into Perkins’ car. Thankfully, the vet said the bite got him in the chest, which would leave him in a lot of pain but wouldn’t kill him.
The vet tranquilized him before we loaded him into the crate, and he’s been sleeping ever since. Unfortunately, nap time is over.
Mom steps forward, a needle in her hand. “Everyone ready?”
We both nod and she opens the crate and sticks the needle into the puppy’s back. She closes the door while we wait.
The puppy opens its eyes after a moment and takes a confused, whiny-sounding yawn. It looks around the room and settles on our faces. Almost immediately its ears flatten against its head and it backs up to the edge of the crate, panting and giving us a scared little side-eye.
Like I said, it’s hard not to feel bad for it. It looks terrified.
“Aww, he’s scared of us.” I can’t stop myself from saying.
“He should be,” Dad grunts. He goes to open the crate door and Cal starts whimpering and pressing himself even further against the back of the cage. He even puts his paws over his snout. I let out a moan of pity and Dad glares at me.
“Do not tell me you feel sorry for this thing.”
“I can’t help it! Look at how sad he looks. Look at those eyes,” I say as Cal peeks out at us from just above his paw.
“Weren’t you in favor of stabbing them all in the heart?” Mom asks, half-amused.
At that, Cal let’s out a terrified yelp and starts trembling.
“Shh!” I hiss, “I think he understands English. Besides, this guy didn’t hurt anyone. He just went along for the ride.”
“One of his friends bit me in the shoulder,” Dad grumbles.
“And then they bit him in the chest,” I counter.
“Whatever; we don’t have time for this.” Dad reaches for Cal. “You’re going to give us answers. Now.”
Cal continues yelping and ducks away from his hand before squatting awkwardly. A moment later the crate bottom is wet.
I point. “Is that…?”
Dad yanks his hand away and shakes it off in disgust. “It peed all over the crate! I just put my hand on dog pee!”
Mom and I look at each other for a moment before we both fall out laughing.
“Great,” Dad grumbles, “I’m glad you both find this so funny.” He slams the crate closed, gets up and grabs a knife from the wall. “Screw this!”
I step between him and cage. “Don’t tell me you’re going torture a puppy.”
“I’m going to torture a shapeshifter,” Dad snarls.
“Okay, that’s it, everyone out!” I usher my folks down the stairs into the hallway. Once there I glare at Dad. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Excuse me?” Dad asks, the monster hunter in his voice giving way to an offended parent. I raise my hands up in surrender.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I just don’t think we have to cut this guy up for him to talk to us.”
“You have a better idea?”
“I do. We could try actually talking to him. I mean, his team just betrayed him. We could, you know, be nice to him and see where that gets us.”
“Catch more flies with honey than vinegar,” Mom says, nodding.
“Go lay down,” I tell them. “Give me half an hour with him.”
Dad turns to Mom, who gives an approving nod. “Fine,” he groans. “Half an hour.”
“Thanks!” I immediately bolt past them down to the first floor.
“Where are you going?” Dad asks.
“To get the honey!”
I stop at the kitchen and make my way to the pantry. I need something that dogs like. What the hell do dogs like? I pull open my phone. “Hey Siri, what’s a good treat for dogs?”
“I’m sorry, Ria,” Siri responds. “I don’t understand “what’s a food gate for frogs.”
Ugggghh. I try again, repeating each word carefully. Finally, Siri proves useful. “Dogs love peanut butter. I would give my dog peanut butter, but I am a phone. And I don’t have a dog.”
I roll my eyes. Who thought it was a good idea to give a phone a personality? All it did was make them tell Dad jokes. The people at Apple must be a bunch of Dads.
Thankfully, if there’s one thing we have in spades in this house—besides salt, gasoline, and knives—it’s peanut butter. I find a jar in the back of the pantry, grab it and run back upstairs.
CAL COULDN’T STOP himself from shaking inside the cage. Panic started deep in his stomach, working its way up through his chest and throat before leaving his mouth in a terrified, low-pitched whine.
Where was he? He had no idea. He couldn’t smell anything beyond salt and gasoline and the puddle of urine he was stuck sitting in. He wanted to shape-shift out, but he hadn’t healed enough to be able to transform yet. He’d be at the mercy of these humans for at least another hour.
If he made it that long. He looked around the room, taking in all of the knives and crowbars that hung from the wall. Why did anyone have so many weapons? What were they going to do to him?
He shifted his weight, and the pain from Dale’s bite flared across his chest, forcing another pained yelp from his lips. He wished he could quiet himself, but the fear and pain made it impossible to stay in control.
The door creaked open, and Cal immediately pressed himself against the back end of the cage. He expected to see all three of his captors. But to his surprise, only the young girl poked through the door. He eyed her through his shivers, putting the pieces back together.
She wore a black suit and tie, and her narrow, brown-skinned face looked at him not with anger or hatred, but with pity. She was the girl from the bank. The one that had beat Dale. She had been nice to him before that. They’d gotten along. Now she was going to torture him.
“Hi there,” she said, her voice soft and gentle. “I’m sorry about that mess with my parents, earlier. You don’t have to be scared of me.”
She opened the cage door, and immediately Cal let out a whimper and pressed his back against the cage.
“I’m not going to hurt you, little guy,” she said. She held up a brown jar, unscrewing the cap slowly and dipping her hand in. She rolled a handful of the substance in her palm and gingerly held it out to him.
Cal eyed the substance. Was she going to poison him?
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s peanut butter. Dogs like peanut butter.” She pulled her hand back to her face and licked the substance. “It’s good.”
She extended her hand out slowly. Cal’s eyes flicked from her hand to her as his stomach grumbled. He was so hungry. The pack had been subsisting on scraps for the last few weeks. Dale said all money had to go to paying off the vampires.
His nostrils expanded and contracted as the aroma from her hand reached him. Whatever it was, it smelled absol
utely delicious. And he was so hungry.
Carefully, Cal took a tentative step forward, moving just far enough for his muzzle to be able to reach her hand. He flicked his tongue out, teasing the peanut butter. Almost immediately, the flavor danced from his tongue to his brain, engaging the dog’s instincts. Then took a gentle bite, relishing the taste and feeling relief as food made its way down his stomach.
The girl smiled at him. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She scooped more peanut butter into her hand, but this time took a step back.
Cal’s ears flattened against his head in fear as he looked from the girl to the cage door. Why was she letting him out? Was this a trick? Were they still going to torture him?
The girl calls to him again, her voice level and her smile displaying kindness and patience. “It’s all right, you can do it. Come here, little guy.”
Cal considered staying in the cage, but he was so hungry. And the food was so delicious. But he needed to be sure this wasn’t a trap.
Her thoughts, Cal realized. Humans didn’t know how to hide their outermost thoughts the way shape-shifters do. If she was planning to hurt him, her thoughts would give her away.
Cal’s ears perked up. All he had to do was listen.
FOR A WHILE, Cal stares at me, his ears standing straight up and his head cocked to the side.
Then, carefully, he sets one paw out of the crate and looks around. He starts slinking toward me, leaving a trail of pee-soaked paw prints behind him. Mom and Dad are going to be so mad.
He reaches my hand and again starts gently licking the peanut butter from my palm. I slowly bring my free hand up toward his head. The puppy flinches, but I keep my face and voice friendly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise,” I say as I gently stroke his head. His ears start to go back, but then I scratch the back of his neck and his tail wags.
“You’re not a bad guy,” I say as I scratch his tail. “You just got caught up with some bad guys.”
His tail starts wagging faster and he leans against me. I try not to freak out about the pee. I need to keep this shifter on my side.
“I know what it’s like to have to do something just cause your family says so,” I admit.
It’s true. I try not to think about those first awful months after my Dad discovered that a werewolf really killed my brother. Everything I wanted went out the window. I had to go from being a kid to being a weapon. And I know that it was for the best, really. I know it probably kept me from being killed myself. But sometimes, when I watch how other teenagers spend their Sunday afternoons, I feel like maybe I still lost something.
“They’re not my family,” I think.
What?
I shake my head. That was not my thought. Where’d that come from?
“Me.”
Cal sits down in front of me and wags his tail excitedly. I blink. Okay, this is not what I was expecting.
“Are you speaking into my head?” I ask. Cal lowers and raises his head, almost like he was trying to nod.
“Okay then. And you can read my thoughts? Because that is so not cool! Or nice!”
Cal’s tail stops wagging and he covers his snout with a paw. “Sorry! I can only hear public thoughts!”
“Public thoughts?”
“Yes! They’re the thoughts you want other people to hear!”
“What? That’s not a thing.”
Cal cocks his head to the side. “They’re not?”
“Look, let’s move past that. What did you mean when you said they’re not your family?”
“They’re not my family. They’re my pack.”
“Your pack?”
“Yes! They took me in after my parents…”
Cal trails off and a whine forms in his throat. I feel even more pity for this guy.
“But why’d they hurt you?”
“That was Dale. He didn’t want me in the pack. He said I was out.”
“Out?”
As soon as I say the word aloud Cal starts freaking out. He yelps and jumps backward and starts running around in a circle.
“Oh God, I got kicked out! I don’t have a pack anymore! I don’t have a pack anymore!”
“Calm down,” I say, but he keeps panicking, even knocking over the crate and spilling the rest of the pee onto the floor. I am so dead.
“I don’t have a pack! I’m packless! Who’s going to take care of me?”
I shove the peanut butter jar in front of his face. “You can stay with us!” I say, trying to calm him down.
Cal stops, cocks his head and raises a paw. “Really? Do you mean it?”
“Uh…”
Shit… what did I just say?
“Sure,” I say.
Shit! Why did I say that?
Cal’s tail starts moving faster than a helicopter blade and he jumps into my arms and starts licking my face. “Oh my God thank you! Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!”
“Okay, calm down!” I say, shoving him off me. “You can stay with us if you help us find your old pack.”
The wagging stops. “Find my pack?”
I nod my head. “They’re stealing things and hurting people, Cal. We have to stop them before they hurt anyone else like they hurt you or my Dad.”
Cal again lowers his head to the ground. “Dale’s scary. I don’t want to see him again.”
I scratch his ear. “Well, if you want to be a part of my pack, you’ve got to be willing to be brave. And you have to be willing to do the right thing.”
“But he’ll hurt me again.”
“He won’t. We’ll protect you.”
Cal looks unconvinced, so I reach forward and start scratching his ears. “It’s time for you to be a good boy, Cal.”
“I’d like to be good.”
“So does that mean you’ll help?”
He barks in response. “I guess that’s a yes,” I say.
I get up and walk toward the door. “Well, come on.”
Cal bounds after me. “Where are we going?”
“To give you a bath and then clean this place up. Maybe then my Dad won’t be quite so mad at me.”
NINE
CAL TELLS us that his pack is hiding out in an abandoned warehouse on West 21st Street in Chelsea. Once I give him a bath and clean up the absolute horrific nightmare that is the pee-soaked attic, we load up on weapons and start the drive back to Manhattan.
My father can’t drive with his injured shoulder, so he’s in the passenger seat grimacing while Mom drives. I was tempted to ask him why he was even coming since fighting monsters tends to be a two-handed job, but I figure it’s just so that he can make sure I know how mad he is at me. And boy, is he mad.
“I can’t believe you told that thing he could stay with us,” he grumbles as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge.
Cal lowers his snout onto my lap.
“What was I supposed to do?” I say. “He’s alone and scared.”
“You’re supposed to use better judgment. We don’t know anything about this monster.”
“I’m not a monster,” Cal objects. “I’m a good boy!”
Dad turns around and glares at him. “STOP TALKING INTO MY HEAD!”
Mom slaps his knee. “David! Calm down!”
He turns back to her. “How are you mad at me?”
“Because we taught our daughter to show empathy and compassion. Do you really expect her to go back on that now?”
The two of them keep arguing, so I focus on Cal. He’s shaking.
“What did Dale do to you?” I whisper.
“Dale doesn’t like it when you mess up. There were others in the pack that messed up too many times…” He trails off, so I decide to change the subject.
“How old are you, Cal?”
“Seven in human years, about one in my years.”
“How come you haven’t shifted into a human yet? I’m curious about what you actually look like.”
“I can’t shift to human. I haven’t maste
red it yet.”
“Mastered?”
“Yup. You have to practice shifting into a form. I can do dog, mosquito, and bird. But nothing bigger yet.”
“So how do you practice?”
“You have to spend time around each shape. You have to see how it walks and runs and eats and sleeps and stuff. Then, once you know everything about it, you can shift into it.”
“Huh. So you’ve gotta go to like shifter school. So what’s your natural form?”
Cal shakes his head. “You wouldn’t like it.”
“Try me.”
He howls in protest. Dad turns back and glares. I put a hand on Cal’s snout. “Okay fine, nevermind!”
Cal uses his back foot to scratch his neck. “Why do you do that,” I ask. “Why do you act like a dog if you’re really a shapeshifter?”
“When you spend time in a form, you kinda become it,” Cal replies. “It’s—”
He stops—mid-sentence—to reach his head back and start licking his butt. “Ewww!” I say as I hear the slurping sounds.
“Okay, we’re here,” Mom says as we pull onto a corner. “Everyone out.”
We all pile onto the street. I put my mask on and pull up my hoodie as Mom grabs the weapons. Standard fare for us: I’ve got my knife, my slingshot and salt-balls and my baton.
I spot Mom strapping on a fanny pack and I can’t contain my disgust. “Really?”
She rolls her eyes and unzips the pack. I look inside. It’s filled with about a half-dozen little syringes, each capped and filled with a clear liquid.
“Tranquilizers,” she says. “From the vet that checked on Cal earlier.” She hands one to me and Dad. “Or would you prefer to have to knock them out the hard way?”
“Got it,” I say. “Don’t question the fanny-pack.”
We’ve purposely parked a block away so as to stay out of smell range. Still, we need to be sure they’re around.
I turn to Cal, who is chasing his tail. “Okay. It’s time for you to be a good boy.”
He starts wagging his tail and crouches like he’s ready to run a mile as soon as I say go. “Okay! What do I do?”